Being Cops, Being Friends
by atrish1
Summary: A Rosie Malone Episode Treatment, where Starsky's sullen mood ends up causing Hutch injury. A sober reminder what's most important to him.


This one is a bit longer-- it's another one of these writing exercise stories, and probably different than most of my other fics that I spend months and months working on. It was written to meet a deadline and a challenge. Just a just quick hit, please forgive any typo or content issues. Again, my buddy Wuemsel was so cool – helping me hone my skills and I thank her dearly for all her encouragement. ( Wuemsel's Writing Bootcamp!!).

I was a bit lost at finding the right title & may change it someday.

** Okay, so I always thought Starsky was a bit weird to Hutch in that Rosie Malone episode. And I guess I'm making him pay for it in this fic. This story will might make more sense if you've seen that episode**

Being Cops, Being Friends

Hutch had every right to be pissed. Starsky had to acknowledge that, even though his current overwhelming guilt and worry, and way too much Jack Daniels in his system was making it very difficult for him to tap into his normal deftness to circumvent around the Hutchinson anger-- he had to get his best friend to a hospital. So they could check him out.

His head, wobbling on its axis, tipped forward. Lightly thudding on the front door of Hutch's Venice Place apartment. He let all his bodyweight pitch forward onto it also. Resting there, getting the slightest comfort from the sounds of his partner's curses and mutterings from inside. He sighed with some relief. Hutch was in there. At the moment, that fact was more important to him than any of the other bull crap he had allowed himself to be obsessed with over the last few weeks...

"S—oorry," Starsky slurred through lips pressed close to the hard wood. "_Hutch?"_ He knew it was spoken too softly to be heard, but also was sure Hutch had to know he was plaintively seeking his forgiveness. What he wouldn't give...his right arm....leg...a lung, to start the night over again.

To go back in time and shake off his rotten mood and to have considered Hutch's suggestion to cool off his jets at home. To drown his sorrow-- _sorrows_ with a willing partner to listen and offer his sage advice. To work on finding a more positive way of dealing with his hurt over Rosie and his coarsely growing resentment for the Justice Department slime attorneys Chambers and Goodson and the way they had played them during the whole Malone case.

"_Hutch, let me in_." Sounding more like a plea than an order. He stepped back, it was an effort, but he kept his balance while he felt across the top of the door. Looking for the key Hutch always kept there. It was gone. Not a surprise, but its absence had a profound effect on his stomach, which churned up acid, and alcohol...and regret. "I deserve that," he had to admit.

Swallowing hard, Starsky just stood there, trying to think of what he needed to do to turn it all around. He'd seen how bad off Hutch was. One of them needed to be thinking clearly. Grasping for a sober thought, Starsky dug a fist into his thick hair. He forced down the urge to panic and calming his breathing, he closed his eyes. Determined to reconcile all the crap he'd set into motion and to find out what condition his best friend was in, he headed for the seldom used back entry to the apartment.

Peering through the glass, Starsky's heart sank. Hutch was a mess. And it was all his doing. One eye nearly shut, his lips -- split and bruised from the punishing punches inflicted on them. Black and red colored marks marred Hutch's skin, pale from distress and injury. There was blood still dripping from an open cut on the side on his forehead, a bump the size of a walnut sticking out. The image of Hutch's head cracking against the metal foot rail around the bottom of the bar--- flashed in his head. He'd seen the shock from the impact on Hutch's face, and Starsky had forgotten how he'd wondered if it would cause a concussion. It was an ugly memory, and the cogitation made him sick, but he didn't deserve to vomit it all away... no. He'd been a bastard tonight...and the night before that one and before and on and on....

Starsky gently tapped on the glass, and the beaten up man he'd been spying on turned to the sound. Wincing, Hutchs hand flew up to his side – one of the sources of his pain. Starsky made a mental list-- make sure his partner was examined for a possible concussion...broken ribs..._internal bleeding?_

They looked at each other through the window. Starsky's gaze traveled to the bottle of brown liquor swinging loosely from Hutch's other arm. Okay, they didn't need the introduction of more alcohol into an already volatile situation-- but it was kind a hypocritical commentary on his part. Because actually earlier, just hours ago, Hutch had been the sober one and Starsky the stumbling drunk who wasn't listening to common sense. Not letting a semblance of reason to direct his actions, one of the things Hutch had requested from him, and he'd been so unwilling to give.

Hutch, in that dingy, little joint where he'd found him, hadn't wanted much from him … not really. His best friend, speaking in that calming, melodic voice of his, usually worked magic getting him in line. Starsky wasn't sure why he had been so unreasonable. It was just--he needed to release some of the disappointment and rage inside of him.

Sometimes being a cop stunk.

What Hutch had missed during the whole Malone case and all the days afterwards was how little patience Starsky had for the '_we've got a job to do'_ argument.

Sometimes Starsky just wanted life to be regular. To want something and get it...like regular folks. Not see and live everything with the cloudy film of "being a cop" covering it.

He had wanted Rosie Malone-- in the worst way. Not even sure why. Wanted her so much so that he had mentally side-stepped out his partnership with Hutch. So he wouldn't have to hear how unprofessional he was acting – and how much pain he was headed for. Starsky didn't want to hear it, and he had pushed Hutch away. Trying to block Hutch's effort to make him put being a cop first.

Even though it was the truth, cops lived by different rules and standards. Well…'Good' ones like him and Hutch did.

Sometimes though, Starsky out and out resented that he had to give up so much. When civilians—a jerk like Chambers, and that weasel Goodson, could screw around and play with your heart like it was some chess piece. Pawns… in a game… for other's entertainment.

So when Hutch saddled up next to him in that ratty smoky joint, Starsky was raring for a fight...

He wanted to pound some flesh...wanted someone else to feel his pain. Something he just needed to release every now and then.

The drunk to his left, that kept bumping him, was a very big man. Tattooed biceps boasted about his 'badassness' and Starsky was more interested in him than any of the quiet inspiration that was flowing out of the tall, blond man on his right was trying to baptism him with.

"_Buddy."_ Starsky was sure he sounded indignant. He looked down at the barrel of an arm nearly touching his and frowned his disapproval at its proximity to his own.

Hutch had pulled at him, whispering knowingly, "Don't Starsk." He shook his head, a request to stop the direction he could see Starsky was headed. "C'mon, Gordo. Let's get outta here, huh?"

The big guy was giving him a snarl. Looking at him like he was a smashed fly stuck to a swatter.

Now, wasn't that disrespectful? And Starsky, turning to Hutch, shared his observation. "He…thinks m' eas-sy mark. Thatss wah he thinksss..._right_?" It took a huge effort to speak and the thought came to mind that if he couldn't speak so well-- _how might his arms be a__ffected __by the mass quantities of liquor he had consumed._ But... he couldn't stop.

"Starsk, we're outta here." He heard Hutch's instruction and saw two shadows on either end of him rise to their full height. One, not Hutch, cast more darkness across the scratched up bar. And that should have been clue enough for him to keep his trap shut, and to let the familiar grip on him pull them out to the safety outside... but he couldn't stop the rage and disappointment inside him from having their way.

"Nope... not lettin' thss chump run me out …of here." He had said, standing, his chest just inches away from pecs of steel, covered by a tightly fitting black t-shirt. Seconds, later, he was sprawled up against a wall, watching his best friend, protecting _his _best friend, get the crap beat out of him.

Hutch, tangling up his opponent, took the brunt of body slams into the bar and onto the filthy cement floor. Starsky watched his partner get in some good shots, but mostly he watched Hutch take a beating that should have been his. Walloping punches repeatedly bounced off Hutch's stomach, as soon as his tried to block them, the big man's punches went up to his head. A well-trained street boxer, no doubt.

Starsky tried to push himself up the wall, to jump in and help, but his legs and arms were useless.

"Hush..." Starsky, fading, slid downward, calling out his slurred apology to his best friend.

Later on, he woke up with cotton mouth. In his own apartment, half on and half off the couch. His partner must have got him home somehow. How Hutch could have done it in the state Starsky had a vague memory of seeing him in?

Hutch-- behind the steering wheel, moaning painfully, driving with one hand drawn tightly across his waist. And blood, too much not to put a trip to the hospital on the top of their to do list for the rest of the evening.

Starsky had forced himself off the couch. No longer fallout drunk, but still miserable-- he stumbled around his place, finding a bottle of aspirin and taking four. Next, he looked for his car keys—not finding them. Hutch would have taken them and his car wasn't out front anyway.

A call to Huggy had gone unanswered. So he'd called a cab.

All his suspicions of Hutch's bad state, no longer just a worry. His own eyes a witness to the damage he might as well have inflicted on his partner himself.

He rapped on the glass again.

"Please, buddy. Let me in…just wanna check…"

Hutch's unswollen eye, bloodstained red, and a displeased grimace dismissed him. Liquor in tow, the hurting man turned away, unsteadily stumbling back into the apartment where he couldn't be seen.

"Hutch," Starsky called after him.

**

"_Sorry dude, didn't hear the phone the first time you called. You know, most humans are asleep this time in the morning..."_

_(--)_

"_Starsky, speak up. You're muttering. Are you drunk?"_

(--)

"_Thought so."_

(--)

"_Shouldn't you be calling your blond-haired Nordic bro for four a.m. rescues?"_

(--)

"_What!"_

(--)

"_So, he's locked up inside?"_

Huggy sat up, kicking off the covers, wide awake and serious. _"Yeah, I got a spare here. I'm there in twenty. Justa... I'm on my way."_

_**_

Huggy knocked one more time, trying to get in the right way instead of invading the place like a swat team. He sighed, "Guess I..._we_...better use these." He slid a glance to Starsky, showing him the spare keys Hutch had entrusted to him. "He ain't gonna like me so much for using them."

Starsky, looking morose, just nodded. His imagination during the last half-hour had worn him ragged. He had to face the person inside, the one that was hurt because of him--- the one that meant more to him than his disappointment, more than his pain over Rosie's abandoning him, more than any anger over two dumb lawyers kicking his ego around like it was a tin can.

The other thing was, Hutch didn't drink to excess often...but when he got drunk, he, like himself, was doing it to put distance between them. It wasn't gonna be easy to get Hutch to listen --that he needed medical attention. His partner locking himself in the Venice Place apartment was a declaration that he wanted space and wanted to be left alone. Add to the whole mix how much Hutch hated going to the hospital; chances were that walnut-sized bump and a bottle of whiskey were gonna make the hard task of getting him into one even more difficult.

How the tables had turned, Starsky bitterly smirked to himself.

Huggy was standing there, still waiting, still uncertain if he was so willing to chance pissing off a hurt and drunk Hutch. Possibly carving a permanent blister of distrust into their friendship.

"I'll do it." Making the decision for him, Starsky smiled grimly, reaching for the keys. "You tell him I made ya, I don't care. I've messed it all up to hell anyway."

*

"Hey, there, Hutch." Huggys's eyes widened, taking in the blood-matted hair and the stark bruising on the pale skin, his gaze worriedly skirted to Starsky, whose barely-there nod quietly acknowledged how bad Hutch looked.

Hutch, stared at them, dilated pupil almost swallowing his normally light blue. An ice pack clasped in his hand, coming up to cover his nearly shut eye.

Annoyed by their presence, "How you get in there?" he sneered. Two sets of the apartment's keys were in his lap and the three quarters empty bottle of booze resting on a thigh. He dropped the ice pack, snatching up the bottle to take a purposeful big swig from it.

"Umm, partner…should you… be drinking?" Starsky asked carefully.

_'Humph,"_ Hutch roughly chuckled at the irony. " That's funny...comin' from you bud—dy." He frowned and pushed up, struggling to get off the couch. "I want...you…guys...out. Nothin' pers'nl, H-ug."

"Sure—nothin' personal, Blondie. You know you're bleeding, right?" Huggy spoke with all diplomacy.

Hutch rocking unsteadily, turned to him. Studying him like he was trying to figure whose side Huggy was playing on.

The bartender who had been rousted out of bed, easily reading his friend, shrugged. "Look, I know you gave me that key for emergencies--you stumbling around here in the dark instead of at an ER getting checked out-- fits the bill to me. You don't look so good, my friend," Huggy pointed out.

Mildly appeased, Hutch countered, "Looks worse on the outside...it's the inside parts that's having the problem." He sent a deliberate scowl in Starsky's direction. "Hug, I'm fine. You wanna help-- take my pa--artner with you when you both..._leave_." He lifted the bottle again.

"Hutch, you need to let a doc check you out. Look, I don't care how that happens. You can let Huggy take you—if that's the way it's gotta go." A very humble Starsky took a step toward him, as he negotiated. "I know, this is all my fault."

"Don't..." Hutch pointed at him, swaying, his head drifting to the side like it was too heavy to hold up.

Starsky stopped talking.

"Juss don't...try that playin' me..."

"I'm not." Starsky took another step.

Hutch, getting riled, raised his voice, "Oh...no. Don't 'pologize. You set the trap..."

"That wasn't for you."

"No," Hutch agreed, "...I know..." His expression soured, "…and I was s'pose to let it go down…_let you get hurt?_"

"I was drunk." Starsky tried to explain.

"Well, you weren't drunk with Rosie."

It was a zinger Starsky hadn't expected. The stinging jab of the words stalled him.

Most people got dumb when they crawled into the bottle—but as a drunk, Hutch was intellectually dangerous. He reached a level of clarity and revelation that Starsky often couldn't argue against. He didn't have a response to the pronouncement. How could he?

"Guess… I was s'pose to get out the way then too," Hutch said. Then apparently distracted, looked down as his ripped shirt, seemingly embarrassed that he hadn't changed the wrecked piece of clothing, patted it down self-consciously.

"Hutch?" Having found his voice again, Starsky sought his attention.

Hutch looked up, squinting with the one good eye. Starsky could see his expression sour. "_You-- change things._.." Hutch said.

"I'm…sor..."

"You don't listen to me." He shrugged, "Wassa point?" Turning too quickly produced enough of a sharp pain for him to gasp. The bottle slipped from his loose grip, crashing loudly to the floor.

"Hutch... You gotta go!" Starsky tried to regain lost ground.

"So..." Hutch surmised, "… y-ou don't wanta hear it... from me... _right?_ That's the way things are gonna be...then I don't wanta go hosp..." Hutch, losing his battle to stay upright, sagged against the couch and Starsky raced to grab hold of him, calling over to Huggy, "Cmon, we're taking him!"

Hutch moaned, pulling away, "Just –just lemme 'lone." Pulling away sent another round of pain through him and he gritted his teeth. "Uhh...better sit down…" he weakly confessed.

"Hutch?"

"Maybe...t'morrow. Don't wanta do...this right now...I'm all...ah...alright..."

Starsky, kept arms on either side of Hutch, telling him as they descended downward, "I messed up...I know." Their foreheads touching, Starsky whispered his apology, "I know, I know, we're a team, _me_ and _you_. I shouldn't've got mad at you for trying to set me straight, Hutch. I'm sorry, kay? But we gotta get you some help, buddy."

"Car or ambulance?" Huggy asked, watching his two friends slow slide to the floor.

"Starsk," Hutch pleaded for a reprieve.

"Sorry, I'll start listening to you tomorrow, babe." Starsky half-cooed the bad news, "You're hurt pretty bad, partner." And then spoke into the air, "Ambulance, Hug."

Hutch tried to push him away and Starsky holding onto him, schooled his best friend on how things were going to go, "Nope, neither one of us is doing that anymore, c'mere." He drew Hutch to him and his friend didn't fight him anymore.

*

They were waiting and Starsky was talking. Hutch curled up in his lap, listening.

"The thing with Rosie was a mistake." Starsky admitted. "I just got caught up in something and I was just too stubborn to admit you were right. What kind of a chance could me and her have had?"

"That's all...I was tryin'..."

"I know, and like you said – you weren't the enemy..."

"Wasn't about reading you the riot act about being a cop," Hutch groggily explained.

"You just didn't want me to get hurt," Starsky clarified. "Just like tonight."

"Been nice you coulda fig'rd this out a few days ago."

"Sometimes, I'm such an ass, huh?"

"Hutch sighed, muttering, "Say again."

"_Sometimes...I'm an ass._"

"Now…I'll go to the h-hospital," Hutch complied, his voice weak.

"That's all you needed." Starsky smiled warmly at the way they were mending fences.

"For now..."

"Alright, partner."

"Starsk?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Don't....don't go too far, huh?" Hutch asked of him.

"I won't, buddy."

"Starsky?"

"Yeah?"

Half moaning, half snickering, Hutch told him, "That guy's punch...like a steel pipe. N-next time you gotta blow off steam...somebody smaller than me...kay?"

"Not gonna be a next time." Starsky wasn't joking anymore, and taking the opportunity to get something off his chest, added, "_And, _you shouldn't be drinking--with a head injury? God, Hutch."

"S-seemed like…a good idea," Hutch croaked out.

"No more thinkin' tonight for either one of us...right?" Starsky suggested.

Now all that was left was the screeching sound of the siren, take charge medics marching in, asking the name of their new patient and what happened to him. They both knew the routine way too well.

Both well aware of the scene that soon would cast them as injured party and friend of injured party.

"You can tell them it's my fault," Starsky said mournfully.

Hutch shook his head, "No." Sucking in air as he tried to quench a moan. "Damn," he cursed his agony, curling up a fist full his friend's shirt.

"S'alright, partner. I'm gonna make sure they take good care of you," Starsky promised.

"Don't…wanta stay there."

"I'll talk to the doc, kay?"

Hutch's head dipped, shoulders sagging.

"Don't sleep," Starsky made a softly-spoken plea.

"Kay," Hutch answered.

(end)


End file.
